


Any Port in a Storm

by libbertyjibbit



Series: TMA October Prompt Fills [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Fantasizing, Introspection, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Prostitution, episode 108
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27114865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: A first meeting that isn't quite, and Martin finds himself remembering some things he'd thought were long forgotten.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Series: TMA October Prompt Fills [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949629
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	Any Port in a Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the lovely MildredMost.
> 
> Written for Day 15 of kinktober: prostitution

"Martin, isn't it?"

Martin stops in his tracks, mouth falling open.

"I-how did-get back! I've got a knife, I-"

The man in front of him grins with what looks like real delight. "Oh, you haven't changed a bit, have you? That's wonderful." He tilts his head. "Although the name you were using wasn’t Martin, was it?"

Martin flinches, sudden understanding washing over him. His face heats and his hands grow cold and clammy, and he clenches them into fists so that neither of them will be able to tell if they're trembling.

"I'm sorry," he says in a small, uncertain voice that he once swore to himself that he'd never use again. "I think you have the wrong person. I'm Mart - I mean, I've never gone by another name."

The man laughs. It's a good laugh, rich and warm, but the warmth doesn't touch Martin; rather he feels colder than ever. He's almost sick with it.

"Oh?" he says, and it's clear that he doesn't believe a word. "I suppose it's possible; I'm not very good about remembering names and faces. Don't really see the point. But you - or the young man I met before, if you'd rather - stuck in my memory in spite of my best efforts." He leans forward and lowers his voice. Martin leans in as well, although he only realizes he's doing so after it's already done and the man's face is far too close to his. "He was so very lovely, you see. So very, very lonely."

Martin shakes his head slowly, but he's not entirely sure that it's a denial. He feels odd, hazy and disconnected, body cold and distant. There's a sound in his ears, something like static, something like sound of water lapping against the short, and it has an almost soporific effect; his eyelids begin to droop. Unbidden, his mind recalls this man in front of him, and the night they actually met for the first time.

*

They were running out of money. There were no two ways about it. Martin took any job he could find but they were never permanent and never paid the sort of money that he needed to keep up with the rent on their flat or the bills. No one wanted to hire a round faced giant of a boy who barely looked old enough to be shaving; his inexperience was written all over him. It was in his hunched shoulders and his fidgeting hands and his shuffling feet. It was there in the way he never met anyone's eyes and answered every question put to him in a voice that was all hesitation and timidity. Everything about him screamed desperation, and no one wanted to help the desperate.

His mother had some money, given to her by her father, and he'd put off using it for as long as he could. He didn’t want to use the money – his mother had made it clear how little she approved of the idea – but eventually he had to. His mother cursed him, called him a thief and a tyrant and a bully, but it had to be done. Yet even that money wouldn't last forever, and Martin was slowly losing hope. His mother was getting worse; some days she would yell at him and throw things, and while he comforted himself that it wasn't his face she was aiming for, it never seemed to help. She needed to go somewhere, needed to be in a place where she could be taken care of and where she wouldn't have to see his face. And to be honest he needed her to be gone. It made him feel sick to think it, but it was the truth.

There was a place. In Devon. It was perfect - far enough away that they could both pretend that Martin wouldn't be able to visit often, with a kind, caring staff. His mother had fixated on the place, and would hear of going nowhere else, but it was too expensive for Martin to send her there. He had to find the money somehow.

He knew that there were other people his age and even younger that made money in other ways - he'd seen them in town. Seen them loitering about the street, making themselves available while doing their best to look it. There was something about the studied casualness of the way that they'd lounge against walls and lamps, the way that their glances would skitter around, looking for a mark. Everything had to be done quietly and quickly, Martin knew that much; what they were doing wasn't exactly legal.

He told himself he wasn't that desperate, but that wasn’t the truth, and finally one night he'd done it. Gone out and stood with the rest, awkward and unhappy in his jumper and jeans, and tried to act like them.

It hadn't worked. Martin had gone home, defeated, shoulders rounded in shame. But he'd gone back the next night, and the next. He kept on looking for work during the day as well, and soon enough he grew tired and wan. Dark circles formed under his eyes, making them stand out even more in his pale face. Soon enough the boys he stood with at night made him go; he was scaring off the punters.

He'd started walking, shuffling along the pavement like an old man, blinking rapidly to stop the tears. He didn't know what to do.

"Well, hello," a voice said, and Martin looked up, startled, into a pair of bright blue eyes.

"H-hello," he answered, and then taken a bunch of steps back when the man in front of him moved forward, getting well into his space. "I-don't come any closer. I've-I've got a knife and I-"

" _Do_ you?" he said, sounding utterly delighted. "That would be something. But you needn't worry; I'm only after what you want to give. Or sell, rather." He winked, and Martin's mouth dropped open.

"You want - but -" he turned his head towards where the others stood; he could just make out a couple of their heads in the dim light from the street lamp. There were prettier ones over there, more experienced too. "Are you - there -"

"The others, you mean? Yes, they're fine, I'm sure, but not quite to my taste. _You_ , however," his eyes moved up and down Martin's body in a way that made heat rush to his cheeks. "You are perfect."

He didn't ask Martin's name, didn't seem to care, but Martin gave him one anyway. "I'm Matthew," he said, voice breaking slightly on the lie. He hoped the man didn’t notice.

He didn't seem to, but then he barely paid attention to Martin at all while they drove to the hotel, seeming content to ignore him and focus instead on the street in front of him. The longer it went on the more Martin began to wonder why he was even there. He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, feeling suddenly chilled. There was nothing here, he thought. Nothing for him, nothing for anyone. This man, whoever he was, was probably regretting his decision. He was probably already debating how best to let him down so he could go back and pick up someone else. Because that was Martin all over, wasn't it? A disappointment. A sad thing with no friends and no family who cared if he lived or died.

"Oh, you really are perfect," the man said, and Martin blinked over at him, oddly surprised to find that he was still there. He was smiling, clearly pleased, and Martin felt his own lips curve in response. Another shiver went through him, this one of pleasure.

The man reached out and cupped his cheek; Martin shivered again. The man's palm was cold and Martin leaned into it, enjoying the cool pressure against his overheated face. The man's smile widened a fraction, then he pulled away, opening his door. "Shall we?"

In the room, he had Martin undress, watching him from a chair with a small, distant smile on his face. "That's it," he said, as Martin slid both jeans and pants down his legs and stepped out of the pool of fabric on the floor. His eyes drifted to Martin's cock, which was half-hard - Martin liked it, having to display himself this way, liked the attention that he was getting, but it was still a bit embarrassing. He knew how he must look, inexperienced and clumsy, and he ducked his head.

"Well that's not going to work," the man said. He sighed. "Go on. Get yourself hard."

"Get my-"

"You do know how, I presume? Get on with it; let me know when you're ready." And with that he pulled out a phone and began to tap at it, frowning slightly.

Martin felt that cold sensation wash over him again, making him want to cringe into himself. But a part of him wanted to do good, to be good, to make the man look at him with interest, earn another one of his oddly proud smiles.

He wrapped a hand around himself and stroked. It felt good, the same way it always did, and though Martin kept his eyes on the man, he never so much as looked at him, and after his initial embarrassment Martin began to enjoy it, being ignored. There was a certain freedom in knowing that no matter what he did, the man would not care, would not turn his head. Martin loosened his grip on his cock, pumping himself lightly while he ran his other hand over his cheek, trailing his fingers across his lips before sliding them down his neck, the touch light, teasing. Martin glanced at the man one last time - he was still focused on his phone, completely oblivious to Martin's existence - and then let his eyes drift closed, tilting his head back as he imagined larger, blunter fingers moving over him.

He trailed his hand over his chest, circling his fingers around one of his nipples before pinching it, gasping at the sharp, tingling feeling that that sent straight to his cock. He did the same to his other nipple, pinching it hard, moaning now at the feeling, hips working into the light touch of his other hand. He slid his fingers down his chest and over his belly, mapping it out with his hand before gripping himself at the hip, thinking about the man doing so, digging his fingers in, possessive. It was his hand around his cock, Martin told himself, his fingers playing with his navel before sliding down to cup his balls, stroking them, teasing. He wanted to tighten his fist, to add more sweet pressure to his aching cock, but he didn’t. His imaginary lover wouldn’t, he thought. He would tease and torture him first, enjoying every whine that wrung out of Martin’s throat.

Martin brought the fingers of his other hand to his mouth and tapped his own closed lips. _Open for me_ , he imagined him saying, and did, sucking eagerly when the fingers slid inside. _That's it, suck them, get them nice and wet. Go on._ Martin sucked, ran his tongue along each digit, doing as bid. He whimpered slightly when the fingers slid back out of his mouth, shifting his legs and arching his hips back slightly, pushing out his arse.

Two fingers pushed inside him and Martin cried out, pressing into them as they immediately found the sweet spot inside of him; the spot that made him moan. "Yes," he said, and the man gave the softest of gasps as he began to work him, his fingers driving him relentlessly towards the edge.

Martin worked for it with him, body rocking back and forth into the sweet pressure of the hand on his cock and the fingers in his arse, legs beginning to shake as he tried to keep them from spilling him onto the floor. His back arched and hit one of the bed posts; Martin sighed in relief and leaned against it, letting it take his weight as the too clever fingers tortured and teased, going on and on until he couldn't take it anymore and came with a loud moan, toes curling into the carpet.

Before he could return to his senses he was being turned and shoved face down on the bed, held there by a hand on the back of his neck as the man kicked his legs apart and drove into him. Martin yelled and thrashed slightly; the man was big, far bigger than his fingers and despite the fingering and his orgasm relaxed body it hurt. Hurt quite a bit, and Martin struggled, surprised tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

The man said nothing, just pushed his neck more firmly into the mattress, and after a moment Martin let himself go limp, energy draining out of his body as the man continued to use him hard, driving his body into the bed with the force of his thrusts. He was still clothed; Martin could feel his trousers brushing against his arse and his shirt against his back, and that hurt, too, in a different way. Martin’s hands curled into the duvet beneath him and he closed his eyes.

The man shifted his angle slightly, and the next thrust made Martin gasp, arousal sinking sticky fingers into him. He knew that he wouldn’t come again, couldn’t, but a little pleasure was better than nothing.

Only it wasn't a little. Every thrust rubbed up against the spot inside him and almost before he was aware of it Martin was pressing back, working himself onto the man's cock and rubbing his own against the duvet, unable to stop even though it kind of hurt a little. The pain just heightened the pleasure, drove it up and up and he wasn't even hard but Martin was entirely sure he was going to come again; he could feel the orgasm building in him with an intensity that was frightening. He began to struggle, arms working and fingers srabbling at the bed, half of him trying to get away and half of him pushing back into the man’s hips, his cock.

"No, no, I can't," Martin said, and he didn't know if he was talking to the man behind him or his own body, but either way it didn't matter. The man grunted and pushed his hand into his hair, using his grip to force Martin to turn his head so his face was pressed into the bedding beneath him. The man pushed his head down firmly, ignoring Martin’s struggles.

"Hush," he said, and for some reason that was what did it. That word combined with the duvet against his face, making it hard to breathe. The completely and utterly impersonal way he was being treated, like he was just a body to fuck, like he could be anyone. Martin bit his own lip to stifle the cry that left him as it felt like his entire body exploded, shaking apart as his vision whited out and he came so hard it was almost painful.

When he came back to himself he was alone. The man was gone, the room as pristine as it had been when they'd arrived, and the only evidence that Martin had that he'd ever been there at all was the come he could feel drying on his back and the stack of notes on the table.

Martin had not seen the man again, even though he'd looked for him, returning to the spot where he'd met him over and over. Eventually others had begun to approach him, more men with money and an itch to scratch, and Martin went with them instead. They didn't pay as well as the mystery man did and the sex was never as weirdly good, either, but it saved him, saved his mum. Then one night he was lying next to one of his punters, listening with half and ear as he droned on about some kid they’d hired fresh out of university who probably wasn’t worth the ink on his bare bones CV, and it was like a light flicked on in his head. He scoured want ads, did some research into what each company seemed to want from their employees, and created a CV to match. The first place he walked into with one of his new, false CVs in his hands was The Magnus Institute, and he’d never looked back. The time he’d spent selling himself hadn’t been long, and the memories had faded – he’d worked hard to make them fade. Not because he was ashamed, not exactly, but because it still hadn't been enough

*

Martin pulls himself out of the memories with effort. He’d thought he’d done a good job of forgetting but here he is, remembering it all as if it were yesterday, and he can tell by the way that the man's lips curl that he knows it. It's probably written all over Martin's face; the flushed cheeks and neck and the way he's trembling slightly. The man glances down and his smile widens; Martin doesn't follow his gaze. He doesn’t need to. He knows he's hard, can feel the arousal sitting like a stone in his belly; a stone with claws that have sunk themselves into his cock.

"You're one of them. A Lukas," he says. So much about the night makes sense now, so much that he hadn't understood at the time is now rearranging itself in his mind to fit this new information. The way he'd felt. The way he'd reacted. Why Lukas had been drawn to him.

"Yes," Lukas says, sounding pleased. "I am. Peter. Pleased to meet you. For real, this time." He tips a familiar wink at Martin, and Martin thinks he feels a hand lightly brush against his cheek before Lukas draws away. "As - providential - as this meeting has been, I'm afraid I can't stay. I was actually looking for Elias."

Martin gives a small laugh. "Of course you were," he says, voice flat. "He's not here."

"No. I suppose this was his little joke, but no reason we can't make the best of it. Tell me, Martin - may I call you Martin? - what do you think of Elias as a boss? Is he fair? A little too stuffy, perhaps? Keeps to himself?"

"I - he's-"

"Quite," Lukas says, mind clearly elsewhere. He gives Martin a bright, false smile. "Well, informative as this little venture has been, I'm already late, and you know Elias is a fan of punctuality." He strides to the door and pauses with his hand on the knob. "I look forward to seeing you again. Most unusual."

And then he's gone, and Martin is once more left confused and alone.

**Author's Note:**

> A few lines were taken directly from the episode, so if they seem familiar that is why. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed, please consider letting me know. :)


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